The Mercenary and the Mystery
by caniscanemedit-bully
Summary: Teldryn Sero cared little for the patrons he accompanied. If they paid well, he'd oblige. But when a mysterious figure hires his blade, he begins to delve into the enigma that is his patron... Image Source: g


Chapter 1

The Dunmer mercenary didn't really care much when a dark figure clad in some strange legendary armour strode into the Retching Netch, demanding his services with a single short phrase.

He didn't care, because nothing could get worse than his previous patron. A barbaric Nord man filled with violence, sprinting into a camp full of bandits like it was nothing. Soon overwhelmed – as was Teldryn, by the sheer stupidity of this man.

They were on their way to Skyrim without a word. He still knew nothing about this person, beside the fact that they loved to dress in elaborate gothic armour, that they likely used magic since they did not have any sort of weapon on their belt or at their back, and that they definitely did not hail from Skyrim based on their accent. They didn't even glance once at him, but he didn't care, after all, he had an extra 500 gold in his pocket. Judging by this person, he was to expect something interesting at the very least.

The boat finally drifted to the Windhelm docks after a long 4 hours. The man, or woman, directed themselves and Teldryn through the mass of Argonians, through the Nords and rotten Dunmer of the city, across the bridge. The first thing he felt from stepping out of the slight warmth of other bodies, crowded buildings and lack of candles was the distinct cold. He was used to the lukewarm temperatures of southern Solstheim, not the freezing winds of Skyrim's north. Even though his teeth audibly chattered and he distinctly shivered beside his brooding companion, they didn't even glance in his direction as some form of acknowledgement.

He noticed their occasional glances up at the Throat of the World. That they would frequently touch their back, like there was something there. They rounded a smooth bend in the path.

Before he could even touch the hilt of his sword, he found his neck, only protected by the cloth of his armour, in the sharp grasp of a powerful gauntlet, and his back pressed against a protuberance of stone.

"I've heard you are competent to keep up, so listen here: I don't care who you are or what you are, you are not to ally yourself with anyone but me. You do, and you'll find yourself allied with the Void. Got that?"

He just nodded.

And that was that. They continued walking, not another word spoken since that brief and unexpected encounter. He gathered from her voice that they were in fact a woman, most likely Mer, and he had heard few humans (and of course, Khajiit and Argonians) speak with such an accent. But this was none of his concern. She was a woman who wanted her business to remain private, and he was just a mercenary to back her up in tough battles, and he could respect that, despite her possibly violent nature.

The moons were climbing from behind the mountains, the sun leaving the last sliver of light skimming the horizon. They neared Bonestrewn Crest – a dragon mountain in the middle of Eastmarch hold. Thankfully, there would be no dragon killing tonight, as all he could see were the skeletal remains of a dragon lay below. Why was it in skeleton form? It would take an incredibly long time for dragon scales to deteriorate, so why was this dragon fully skeletal like it had been dead for years?

They climbed the mountain, and it was clear that she was prepared to camp here for the night. Her motives seemed smart, as what bandit or other dangerous dweller of Skyrim would want to climb a mountain home to dragons?

As she pitched her tent, he did the same. Their silence seemed strange. It was strange to set up his tent by the side of a woman he didn't know anything about. All of his other patrons had at least mentioned their name, or an alias, by now, and maybe a few little titbits of information about their origins. And he always knew their race off the bat, either by a question or the fact that they did not brood with dark armour covering their entire form.

She finished pitching her tent long before he did, having her bed roll already out. He didn't expect much, until she began to lift her dark helmet from her head. His jaw dropped, and eyes widened.

"Don't. Breathe. A word."


End file.
